


The Lighter Side of Cannibalism

by AxmxZ (Boanerges)



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Crack, Crack Treated Seriously, Ficlet Collection, Hannibal crack, Humor, M/M, Mistletoe, Other, Soviet!Hannibal
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-11
Updated: 2015-10-24
Packaged: 2018-03-07 01:33:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 8,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3155957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Boanerges/pseuds/AxmxZ
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of prompted crackficlets from <a href="http://axmxz.tumblr.com/">my tumblr</a>. Contains non-explicit Hannigram.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> fuckyeahilike asked: Will goes back to teaching classes and Hannibal signs up, wearing a fake moustache and affecting a French accent.
> 
> Check out my tumblr at http://axmxz.tumblr.com - mostly Hannibal most of the time

"Yes, you there, in the back, with no eyebrows and a bizarrely comic Snidely Whiplash moustache."

"I wez jest thinkIn’, ah, monsieur le teachEre, ah, ees eet really so rhong, comment ça se dit, le cannibalisme?"

Will took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. He felt a migraine coming on.

"I mean, if, eh, someOne behaves like a, a, comment ça se dit, a bit of a bâtard?"

"In what sense?"

"Oh, je sais pas, what if zey, ah, poured some coffEE on you and deed not apologize?"

"No, Mystery Man Who Is Easily Twice as Old As Most Other Students, that would not merit being killed and eaten."

"What if they, like, ran over someone and didn’t stop?" asked a petite pensive blonde from the row ahead of the mysterious inquirer.

"Yeah, what if they ran over a dog?” asked her neighbor, pointing to Will’s head with his pen for emphasis.

"Well, obviously, in that case, it would be… NO!”

'Snidely' hung his head with a dramatic sigh. “I weesh we could all get along like we used to last year.” His voice cracked. “I weesh I could bake eh cake filled with rainbows end smiles end everyone would eat end bee 'appee…

"He doesn’t even go here!" shouted someone from the other side of the room.

"Mr. Whose Moustache Is Clearly Coming Off, do you even go to this Academy?" asked Will.

The man burst into sobs. “I just ‘ave a lot of feelEEngs!”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> guide-to-uselessness asked: 
> 
> Hannigram prompt: Where Will prefers plain, cheap, more than likely fairly unhealthy food to the meals that Hannibal has prepared.

"Frozen dumplings."

"So?"

" _Pel’meni_." Hannibal’s baleful red eye swept over the blue Cyrillic print on the brick-like package melting on his granite countertop. "Russian frozen dumplings.”

Will shrugged one shoulder. “And?”

Hannibal sighed. “I suppose it would be too much to ask you for sensitivity to the spirit of the occasion?”

"What occasion? You said we were having dinner. You promised I could bring any meat I choose."

"We’re celebrating the restoration of Lithuanian independence from Russia. Or rather, I am. I’m not sure what you are intending to commemorate with this…"

Hannibal wiggled his fingers dismissively towards the brick, clearly failing to find an English insult biting enough to chastise the foodstuff in question to the extent it deserved.

Will shrugged again. “It had nifty writing on it. I figured, it’s from somewhere around where you’re from.”

Hannibal’s pale eyebrows made a valiant but ultimately fruitless attempt to climb out from underneath his brow-ridge.

"Setting aside your colossal ignorance of European geography, history, and geopolitics, you do realize that these… things… won’t separate in water. They clearly thawed and refroze several times already."

"So?"

"If we were to eat it, I would literally have to chop a hunk of it off with a cleaver and boil the entire mess as a sort of …stew…"

Hannibal’s throat convulsed in a dry heave.

"Are you going back on your promise?"

"No." Hannibal visibly straightened and took a slow, calming breath. "No, of course not. I shall cook what you brought and eat it with no complaints. It’s only fair."

He picked up the package with two fingers and carried it to the sink, past Will, who was struggling not to let his face twist into a grimace of vengeful glee.

"Where did you say you bought these, again?" asked Hannibal, turning the faucet to fill a pot.

"From the back of a truck in Highlandtown."

"Hmm. Not from a particularly greasy gentleman in a stained padded coat, was it? With a worn ushanka of unidentifiable fur on his head and an eternal Belomor cigarette dangling from his lip? Probably introduced himself as Vasya?"

"Maybe. What of it?"

"Oh, nothing, nothing." Hannibal shut off the water. A smile nudged at the corners of his mouth. "Only there is a not insignificant chance that these dumplings were made with dog meat."


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> lackadaisically-bisexual asked:
> 
> Hannibal tapes mistletoe to the crotch of his pants and keeps trying to not-so-subtly maneuver will's mouth into position and make it look like a coincidence

The ladder *looked* fine, but of course, one never knew with ladders.

"I just would like some extra assurance of stability," said Hannibal with a smile.

"Don’t we all," muttered Will, walking around to grasp the ladder while Hannibal ascended. 

About four rungs up, Hannibal stopped, tsked, and looked down, meeting Will’s eyes. “Just as I thought. The top rung is loose. Are you okay to stay like this? It’ll take me a few minutes to screw everything properly.”

"Screw away," sighed Will, dropping his eyes and coming face to face with something unexpected.

"Hannibal," he asked cautiously, "why is there shrubbery around your crotch?"

There was a moment of silence from above, then a similarly cautious response:

"Well, my dear Will, when a young man reaches the age of thirteen or fourteen, the soft vellus hair around his genital area gradually becomes replaced by thicker, curlier hair due to the rising levels of androgens produced by the body…"

"I mean literal green shrubbery, there’s a branch sticking out of your fly, with evergreen leaves and white berries and holy shit is that mistletoe?.."

"Merry Christmas, Will. Care to honor the tradition?"


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> kg-sarenaty answered: body swap? also its during a ‘peace moment’ and wills at home and hannibal is doing whatever hannibal does.
> 
> *~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~  
> Note: I misread the prompt as Will being at Hannibal’s home and figured he wandered in ahead of time for a dinner party, and Hannibal sent him off to shower and change into something less redolent of dog.  
> *~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

"Hannibal?"

"Yes, Will?"

"Did you slip hallucinogens into my wine again?"

"I can see why you would think that, but no. I’m not quite sure what to attribute this … development to."

"Divine retribution for our countless crimes against God, each other and humanity?"

"Perhaps. By the way, you should really see a dermatologist about that mole on your, ah, lower-lower back."

"Stop looking at my ass! You don’t have the right to ogle me just because God pranked us while I was in the shower."

"If my looking at your intimate areas concerns you this much, Will, then I have some bad news for you."

"No."

"I’m afraid so."

"NO!!"

"Before you got into the shower, you neglected to, how do you Americans put it - drain the lizard?"

_*BANG BANG BANG*_

"HANNIBAL NO!! I have the kitchen scissors from your poncy herb garden in my hand. Keep your mitts off my wiener, or I’ll give you the worst haircut of your life!!"

"First of all, Will, my youth passed in the Eastern Bloc in the 1980s. Nothing done by you would even make it into Bottom Five of my haircuts. Secondly, what precisely is your plan with respect to necessary bodily functions? Wait and hope that the situation resolves itself before I piss yourself, as it were?"

"…fine. You can make me pee. But I order you not to enjoy it."

"I shall be the quintessence of continence."

"Christ, it’s weird hearing my own voice say things like that."

_*splooshhhh*_

"Well, this day can’t get any worse."

"At least you don’t have ischuria.”

"Joy."

"Though the numbness in your left foot is worrying."

"Stop diagnosing me!"

_*ding ding*_

"Is that…?"

"The oven timer, yes."

_*DING DING*_

"Is that…?"

"The doorbell, yes."

"Should I..?"

"Use your empathy to its fullest extent to fool all the lawyers, psychiatrists, and socialites about to descend on this house into thinking you’re actually me?"

"Ugh…"

"Lesson one, Will: I do not ‘ugh’."


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> mummyholmesisupset: Will saying “this is my design” after he finishes every lure he makes

"He’s been doing this for an hour."

The other students nodded. There were not many left. Most had wandered off after it became obvious that the Powerpoint turned on by the TA was never moving past the first slide, because the instructor had no intention of opening his mouth or leaving his desk.

Jim Bob the burly security guard leaned over the desk.

"Mister Graham, can you hear me?" he asked gently.

The overgrown curly mane bent over its work did not budge. Will’s hands continued to twist thin copper wire around the neck of the little figurine. Finally, he picked up a hook, put it violently through the doll’s face, and set it on the desk next to all the others.

"This is my design," he whispered, picking up the next cut of wire.

"That’s literally all he’s said all day," said someone in the milling crowd. "He needs to go to the hospital."

"Didn’t he just get out of the hospital?” countered another student.

"OK, well, let’s take this as an opportunity to do some profiling!" said the TA, a conscientious young lady who did not want to write the day off entirely just because Professor Graham was having another one of his flirtations with madness. "What can we conclude about the man’s mental state and motivation from the evidence before us?"

The students contemplated the figurines at the edge of the desk - five little dolls of feathers and wire, all with hooks through their heads.

"He wants to kill a lot of people?" suggested a male student.

"Or just one guy, many times, but the same way?" suggested a female student.

There was a long pause.

"Ok, let’s try to deduce the reason from the offender instead," sighed the TA. "What do we know about Professor Graham’s background that could be helpful to explain this?"

"He’s single. Lives alone. Likes fishing. Rescues dogs."

A barely audible collective sigh escaped the more romantically inclined females and males of the crowd.

"This is my design," whispered Will, setting down another completed figurine in the place of the one she lifted.

"Why does he need so many?" someone wondered aloud. "These aren’t actual fishing lures. They won’t get used up."

"The process must be more important than the product," said another student. "Maybe it’s like with Japanese paper cranes: you need to make a thousand, or your wish won’t come true."

"Professor Graham isn’t into origami though. Or Japanese stuff."

"Maybe he’s making them for sale."

"Who’d buy them though?"

"I dunno, kids?"

"They’ve got fishing hooks in them! They’re not kid-safe!"

"Hey, I played with sharp stuff when I was a kid all the time, and I turned out okay."

"Ain’t he from Louisiana?" asked Jim Bob the security guard, picking up one of the dolls and turning it this way and that in his big pink sausage-like fingers. "Them look like voodoo dolls. Must be some guy he really wants caught."

"A," said Will Graham quietly, picking up another length of wire.

Everyone leaned in at once.

"What?" "What did he say?" "Professor Graham?"

"Jim Bob gets an A for the day," said Will Graham, lifting his unclouded green gaze to scan the crowd around him. "The rest of you can return to your seats."


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> anavolena asked: Badfic prompt: Will and Hannibal have a rap battle.

**Will “Lil Mongoose” Graham:**

Yeah yeah yeah, I’m back

Back on the force, hand-picked by Jack

I sniff out crazies, my life is whack

The shit I see and hear and smell

Every day is hell

Every day I retreat deeper and deeper into my shell

Jack knows, he don’t care, just thinks I’m weak

Girls dropping dead every day of the week

This shit is twisted

Wouldn’t do this at all, but Jack insisted

"Can I borrow your imagination?"

Now I’m flying all over the nation

Reading rights, starting firefights,

Sleepwalking the streets at all hours of day and night

With a huge black deer at my back

Always near, always just out of sight

But hear me say this, ‘cause every word is true

Chesapeake Ripper, I’m closing in on you.

———————————————————————————————

**Hannibal “The Cannibal” Lecter:**

Uh huh, uh huh

Boy, don’t look so proud

Your rhymes stink out loud

And so do you - it’s like walking through a toxic cloud!

You’d be just another pest for me to swat

But your brain is hot

Fifty shades of cray, I can’t resist you

Come cry in my arms, baby boy, here’s a tissue,

I’ll be your shrink *and* your friend

What ethical issues?

I don’t care if you smell like fish, dogs, and flop sweat

Gonna mindf*ck you so hard, even Jack will need a cigarette!

———————————————————————————————

 

**Will “Lil Mongoose” Graham:**

I’m no angel myself, truth be told

But feeding me Abigail’s ear?

Dang homes, that’s cold.

You hurt me bad, but now I’m done hurting

I can see clearly now: you were just flirting

Frying my brain, dissing my cologne

Was just Chesapeake Ripper-ese for “Wanna bone?”

Think you can wreck my life just because you’re bored?

Bitch, I will play you with both hands, like a harpsichord

No more head-to-head, time to make a fresh start

You’re Smaug the dragon: your weakest spot is your heart

Recognize, empathize, that’s the trick

Call me Bard, I’m taking one last shot at this prick!

———————————————————————————————

**Hannibal “The Cannibal” Lecter:**

You’re no mongoose, you’re a rat and a coward

You wanted a shot at _this prick_ , boy, you shoulda showered

Playing like I could take your love to the bank

Then coming to my house rank with skank stank

Reap what you sow

Time to blow

You were right all along: I’m intelligent and sadistic

An army of one, combat, Psy Ops *and* logistics

Look what you made me do, what a commotion!

I had love on the brain, you just wanted a promotion

Now you’re on the cold floor, bleeding like a stuck pig

All your mystic insights not worth a rotten fig

Close your eyes, Will, wade into the quiet of the stream,

Don’t forget to wish Alana, Jack and Abigail sweet dreams

Here’s some cold hard truth: you’re a chump, I’m a baller

Catch you on the flipside, boy

If you ever get to Florence,

Holler.

*mic drop*


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> fuckyeahilike asked: The real Chesapeake Ripper is Franklin Froideveaux, who wants to kill damsel in distress Hannibal by making him choke to death with cheese, but swashbuckling hero Will saves the day

Lecter side-eyed the large plate covered with a glass cloche.

"Thank you, I’m fine. But if you like, we can discuss your reasons for bringing this dish to our session."

_*ding*_

"I simply insist, Doctor Lecter. It’s my find of the season: a Pecorino sardo which has been…"

"…intentionally infested with Piophila casei, i.e. the cheese fly.”

Franklin felt his mouth droop slightly open.

"I’m surprised you got this past the customs," remarked Lecter, leaning forward slightly to peer through the cloche at the white mass inside. "They tend to frown on foodstuff this eager to abandon its container."

_*ding*_

"Please, share a bite with me." Franklin reached for the cloche, but Hannibal stopped him.

"I must regretfully decline, and also insist you leave the plate covered."

"You surprise me, Doctor Lecter," said Franklin, frustrated. "I thought you were a culinary daredevil."

"Franklin, I have eaten things that would make your hair stand on end," said Lecter, dusting his left pant leg as he crossed it over his right. “Soviet broiler farm chickens, for instance. However, I do not fancy picking dead maggots out of the pile of my 19th century Karabakh carpet.”

_*ding* *ding*_

"Yes, they are a jumpy bunch," smiled Franklin, as if talking about his beloved pets. "How about this: I take this out into the waiting room, and we both have some there? That way your carpet is not endangered."

Lecter was clearly on the verge of putting his foot down, but Franklin pulled his best hopeful puppy face out of storage, and the compassionate therapist won out over the priss. Lecter sighed and rose.

"One bite," he said. Franklin beamed at him and lifted the plate off the table. One bite was all he needed. Then it was chloroform, more cheese in the mouth, aspiration, and an inconspicuous death by choking. The leggy bastard would finally get what was coming to him, and no one would be the wiser.

"Franklin, why does the dark stain spreading rapidly in your pants pocket smell of chloroform?"

Franklin sighed and brought the plate down hard onto Lecter’s head.

Lecter made a small breathy noise and fell over elegantly onto his fancy carpet.

"Because you even pass out like a Bolshoi ballerina, that’s why," said Franklin, lifting a piece of squirmy cheese off the carpet and shoving it into Lecter’s slack mouth. It was a matter of principle now. "Honestly, how do you expect any of us normal-looking guys to get any when you’re flouncing around with your 30-inch waist and legs up to your armpits? Who looks like that when they are pushing fifty? Or at all? Real men have curves!"

He ground some of the cheese into the carpet vindictively with the heel of his hand.

"And the hair, and the clothes - Tobias wouldn’t shut up about you ever since that night. Had to get rid of him, too…"

Behind him, a door opened.

"What the hell..?" said a deep male voice.

Franklin turned around. It was the curly doe-eyed pretty-boy that has been mooning around Lecter’s office lately. Of course it was. Guys like Lecter got *everything*.

Awash in bitterness, Franklin failed to notice that the young man was aiming a gun at him.

"Don’t shoot!" screamed Franklin. "Please, you have to help Doctor Lecter! He choked on some cheese and passed out!"

I’d have had him choke on something else, but you take what you can get, he thought to himself.

The boy’s doe eyes flickered to the body on the ground, then to Franklin again. Franklin assumed the stupidest, most harmless expression he was capable of and raised his arms as far above his head as they went, to show full compliance with the demands of the law.

"Hannibal would never choke on cheese," said the boy with conviction and shot Franklin in the foot. "It’s not his design."


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> silkysimpona asked:
> 
> Hannibal is hard at work setting up his latest murder tableau in a conspicuously public place (as he is wont to do), when he's spotted by Will and/or Jack. He avoids suspicion by pretending it's postmodern art.

Hannibal pulled the fringed maroon shawl up and over the corpse’s bony shoulder for the third time. The antique ‘memento mori’ cameo pin with the death’s head looked nice enough when he spotted it in the antique store window, but now he was regretting the impulse buy: the darn thing just wouldn’t stay closed.

I really should’ve brought a spare safety pin, thought Hannibal. Where was my head when I was getting ready? Oh, right: between Will’s firm, round…

"Hannibal?"

Hannibal’s heart skipped a beat. “Hello, Jack.”

"…Hannibal?"

Hannibal’s heart skipped another beat. “Hello, Will.”

"Hands up," came Jack’s voice again. "Turn around, slowly."

Hannibal did as ordered and found himself face to face with two gun barrels.

"Doctor Lecter, what are you doing at a Forever 21 in the middle of the night?" said Jack in a voice tinged with a hint of a soupçon of suspicion.

"I could ask you the same question," pointed out Hannibal.

"We intercepted a dispatcher call," said Will in a sleepy monotone. "We were sitting in a patrol car, because Jack had this bright idea to drag me out of bed at fuck-you o’clock in the morning…"

"Will, language," chided Hannibal and Jack in chorus.

"…to stake out the entire city of Baltimore, in case the Ripper was out ripping, and we might perhaps catch him fleeing the scene," finished Will and yawned cavernously. "You know they can see you fiddling with this guy from, like, all three all-night coffee shops across the street, right? You have an audience of at least thirty insomniac hipsters. Five of them are filming and live-casting all this, and I’m pretty sure this scene is being speed-inserted into at least ten screenplays as we speak."

"Huh," said Hannibal, looking over Will’s shoulder and out the window. "I hope they cast Tilda Swinton to play me."

"I’ve yet to hear an explanation," said Jack, approaching the mannequin stand and frowning at frothy white petticoats framing the naked knobbly-kneed old man legs sticking out from underneath the red calico dress.

"This is Howard," explained Hannibal. "My latest patient, if you will pardon the pun."

Will snorted and scratched the back of his head with the business end of his gun.

"Will! Stop that!" barked Jack.

Will finished scratching himself and looked down the barrel to see if anything particularly interesting had been scraped off.

“Boy, this takes me back,” he said. “This one time, my mom hit the contraband hooch at one of the church functions a bit too hard, so when she stumbled home in the middle of the night, my dad and I rushed out of our rooms with our guns drawn…”

"Not a good time, Will!" bellowed Jack.

"Why am I the mom in this?" asked Hannibal peevishly. "William, do you think of me as your mother? Stand up straight, young man, and wipe that inane smile off your face while I’m talking to you!”

"HANNIBAL, WHY ARE YOU POSING A DEAD OLD MAN IN A DRESS IN THE WINDOW OF A FOREVER 21?!“ roared Jack, wondering in the back of his mind why all his speech was being rendered with such animalistic descriptors, and whether it was time to consider that anger management course HR was always leaving him brochures for.

"Like I said, this is my latest patient. In the euphemistic sense of being very recently deceased.”

"How recently?" asked Jack suspiciously.

"Speaking as a surgeon, as of about three hours ago. However, this is only an educated guess, since I wasn't there when it happened. Howard phoned me about four hours ago and told me he had urgent need of me at his house. Being a dedicated and conscientious mental health worker…"

Will rolled his eyes so hard they probably saw it on the International Space Station.

"…I drove straight away to his countryside manor and found him deceased from an apparent self-administered morphine overdose. He was holding a note asking me, as the person in whom he had the most trust in the whole world, to do him one last favor."

"Namely to pose him in an antique dress in the window of a Forever 21?" asked Jack sarcastically.

"The note is in my right pants pocket. Will, feel free to retrieve it."

"What about me, doctor? Am I free to retrieve it?" asked Jack even more sarcastically.

"If you trust in Will’s ability to keep his aim true, then by all means," shrugged Hannibal with a microsmirk.

"I’m surprised you didn't stick it in your butt crack," grumbled Will _sotto voce_ as he fished around in Hannibal’s pants for the note.

To Jack’s surprise, the note was there, a full handwritten page, front and back. To his astonishment, it was notarized and co-signed by an attorney.

"Howard was a queer duck," said Hannibal meditatively. "His eccentricity always did skirt the edge of insanity just enough to be fascinating without being legally actionable."

"How long did he request to remain in the window?"

"Until it is discovered by early passers-by, inspiring them, as he put it, ‘to become awake to the empty vanity of the modern youth culture,’" Hannibal nodded. "He conceived of it as an art installation of sorts. You can read it for yourselves. I will wait."

His hands remained above his head. Will marveled at his patience. Also, his shoulder strength.

Jack threw up his hands and re-holstered his service Glock. “Screw this,” he said and headed out the door. “I’m going home. Let BPD sort this shit out.”

"Where's the cooler?" asked Will as soon as they were alone.

"Will, he was seventy years old and died of a morphine overdose." Hannibal lowered his hands and shook them out to restore circulation. "Do you really think I would put *that* into my body? I was just going to cut out his heart and put it into his hand. Thank god that shawl pin kept getting unstuck…"

He held the door open for Will as they left the building.

"And when Jack asks me to look into this Howard’s will, are we going to find out that it was changed recently to reflect yourself as its new sole beneficiary and executor?"

"Not quite," said Hannibal smoothly. "The deceased also had a favorite niece in Boston. She is to inherit his prized collection of late Victorian Biedermeier china dolls.”

"Awful generous of you."

"Don’t be so quick to dismiss it as a trifle. The collection is quite extensive, and each doll would fetch hundreds of dollars at open auction."

"You couldn't stand to dispose of them, could you?"

Hannibal looked at Will with genuine fear.

"They kept looking at me with those beady little blue eyes,” he said in a small voice.

"Did you at least get us dinner for tomorrow night?"

"Will, I’m only one man. I did not have the time."

"Then I know just how you’re going to make this up to me."

"Will, no."

"Will, yes. Mickey D’s drive-thru, and step on it."


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> bedannibal-lectaurier asked:
> 
> If you are still taking crackfic prompts- Hannibal somehow ruins dinner, has the equivalent of a toddler meltdown, and Bedelia has to talk him off the ledge

"I burned the roast!"

This is why she never had children, she reminded herself and saluted yet again a choice well made.

(Although arguably they were supposed to grow out of this stage by the time they were big enough to pick you up instead of the other way around.)

"I know you did. It’s not a big deal. It’s okay."

"N O IT IS NAWT!1!"

Hannibal’s voice broke off into a squawk as he smeared more fluids over his cheekbone with a petulant fist. All of his face orifices were running liberally into his limited edition plaid cashmere turtleneck from Armani. Only his ear canals seemed to remain dry. Everything else was leaking like it was trying to prove something.

Bedelia resolutely suppressed a twinge of visceral disgust. 

"Come down from the roof, Hannibal, and talk it over with me like a big boy. You are a big boy, Hannibal, aren’t you?"

Hella bigger than me, anyway, she thought.

"Why..is..everything..so..*hard*?.." sobbed out Hannibal in a staccato. "Why..is..everything..always..so..."

The grievance trailed off into another disturbing wail: a bit toddler, a bit ghost, and a bit senile bloodhound with severe separation anxiety.

Bedelia opened her embrace and wiggled her fingers, inviting him to crawl back over the shingles into the attic window and step into the warm maternal circle of her arms. It was all rather disingenuous of course - her maternal warmth for Hannibal barely registered on the Kelvin scale. But it was the best she could offer the snotty hot mess currently dangling his unfairly shapely legs off the roof of their two-story cottage.

"Well, why don’t you come down here and try again? You know what they say: if at first you don’t succeed…"

Hannibal sniffled.

"…kill everyone and flee?" he offered timidly.

Bedelia sighed.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> fuckyeahilike asked:
> 
> The Ravenstag and the Wendigo meet to discuss their human counterparts and where they come in to all this. :)

"For the last time, you are not fat," huffed the Ravenstag.

The Wendigo kept on poking the hollows under its cheeks and staring at itself in the puddle with sightless eyes. The puddle rippled.

"LOOK AT OUR FLABBY ARMS." The Wendigo pinched the skin of its left tricep. ”WE HAVE FLYING SQUIRREL ARMS.”

The Ravenstag sighed deeply and lowered itself to the ground, awkwardly laying its muzzle flat on its front legs like a depressed dog.

"You have bigger things to worry about that than, I think."

"YOU ARE RIGHT." Still looking at the puddle, the Wendigo flexed its thin ropey biceps. "WE ALSO HAVE CHICKEN LEGS."

The Ravenstag closed his eyes in exasperation.

"WE HAVE BEEN SKIPPING LEG DAY."

"That doesn’t sound like you."

“WE HAVE HAD A LOT ON OUR MIND. ALSO, WE HATE LEG DAY. WE LIKE TO SWIM. WE SWIM LAPS. WE MUST BE FIT.” Crystal needles of frost were slowly obliterating the Wendigo’s reflection in the puddle. ”WE MUST BE HANDSOME.”

The Ravenstag huffed out a sarcastic cloud of warm stench into the freezing air. 

"WE ARE OLD. OUR SKIN IS WRINKLED. OUR BEARD GROWS WHITE. BUT WE CAN STILL BE WORTHY IF WE ARE STRONG. WE MUST BE STRONG."

"You must be out of your damn mind, is what you must be. You think we give a fuck what you look like? You put us in prison. Do you know how shitty life is in prison?"

The Wendigo plopped on its bony behind on the grass. ”YES,” it said in a business-like tone. “PRISON FOOD IS INFERIOR. IT IS NOT TASTY. IT IS MADE FROM INORGANIC INGREDIENTS. THE MANDATED DAILY DIET OF 3,700 CALORIES CONSISTING OF 15% PROTEIN 55% CARBOHYDRATES, AND 30% FAT IS NOT OPTIMAL FOR EVERY INMATE. HOWEVER, WE KNOW YOU SKIP MEALS WHEN YOU ARE UNSUPERVISED. ALCOHOL IS NOT ADEQUATE NUTRITION. WE CANNOT FEED YOU ALL YOUR MEALS YET. YOU ARE NOT READY. THIS IS BETTER.”

"It is so fucking far from better…"

"YOU ARE VERY THIN. IT IS BETTER THIS WAY. THEY WILL MAKE YOU EAT. YOU MUST EAT ALL THE FOOD. IT IS VERY IMPORTANT THAT YOU EAT."

The Ravenstag opened its mouth, as if to ask something biting and rhetorical, then shut it with another huff. 

"WE REQUIRE YOU. YOU MUST LIVE. YOU MUST THRIVE. YOU MUST BECOME LIKE US. YOU MUST FEED."

The Ravenstag pawed half-heartedly at the frozen ground to unearth a bit of scraggly moss. "You know, there is this nurse in the hospital. He brings us better food."

"DO NOT EAT HIS FOOD!"

"I thought you just said…"

"DO NOT EAT HIS FOOD DO NOT EAT HIS FOODDONOTEATHISFOOD"

The Ravenstag lifted its bottomless black eyes to the Wendigo, who was now rocking back and forth on its haunches.

"He is handsome, too. Young. Younger that us, even."

"NO."

"And fit. Oh man. So fucking fit. He’s got an honest-to-God eight-pack."

"NO NO NO NO NONONO"

"He brings us delicious treats. Fruit and candy. Night after night. We eat his food, and are grateful. We might grow to love him."

"YOU MAY NOT LOVE HIM! WE FORBID IT!"

"We will love him if we want. He is totally into us. He does our bidding. Besides, who the fuck are you to forbid us anything? You put us there."

"WE LOVE YOU. WE WANT TO FEED YOU. YOU BELONG TO US. YOU MAY NOT LOVE HIM. YOU MAY NOT EAT HIS FOOD.”

The Ravenstag rose from the ground - like a cow, rear end first - and headed off into the woods.

"You just keep on swimming your laps, old man. Keep on swimming your fucking laps.”

In the distance, the Wendigo wailed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hm. It was supposed to be funny but then got away from me a bit.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> mummyholmesisupset replied to your post: 
> 
> Will having his yat accent come out when he drinks. Panties fly everywhere.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Yat" is the signature dialect of New Orleans. (From "where y'at?")

"Oh my God, I’m dying,” said the blonde, clutching her hands to her mouth in a paroxysm of delight. “Say something else!”

"Say ‘mayonnaise’," said the brunette.

"My’nez," said Will, confused by the attention.

"You are _adorable_ ,” said the blonde, caressing Will’s shoulder firmly, as if seeking to reassure rather than seduce him.

"Yes, you _are_ ,” echoed the brunette, putting her warm hand on Will’s thigh and scraping upwards ever-so-lightly with her glittering talons.

Will did not answer. He was thinking about a dog. The one he saw tied to the bike rack outside the bar when they walked in, a shepherd mix of some kind. How was he doing, that dog? Was he still tied up out there?

Will wobbled off his stool, steadying it with both hands.

"Aw, where are you off to, sugar pie?" drawled the women in unison.

"Yswll..whryougn?.."

Will found himself being grasped firmly around the waist from behind. The girls’ expressions shifted from carnal to confused to understanding, and back to carnal.

"Dat you ‘Annibal?" muttered Will.

"Whlswdbe?" Hot alcohol fumes tickled the shell of Will’s ear. "Aryohvangdtaim?"

"M’awrite." 

"Who is _this_?” asked the blonde with an open mouth grin that made Will think of snakes tasting the air for scent of prey.

"Dis my psychitariss," said Will, settling into the steel clutches of Hannibal’s embrace.

The girls traded puzzled side glances.

Will sniffed and felt his eyes water. “Phew! Ya smell like a still, dawlin’.”

"Ivonadrinkncontss," purred Hannibal.

"What contess?" Will craned his head to look behind Hannibal’s back. The table in the corner was covered with empty shot glasses. Neither Alana nor Bev were to be seen. "Where da girls at?"

"Undrthtabl."

"What, lit’rally?"

"Mrrmrhm." 

"No wonder ya drunk."

Hannibal shrugged, picking Will up off the ground slightly in the process so that only his toes touched the floor, then setting him back down. 

"Ygnintrodceuss?" said Hannibal, more to the women at the bar that to Will.

"F’sure. Dis Jenna, and dis… Rachel?.."

"Amanda. But if you want me to be Rachel, honey, I’ll be Rachel," husked the blonde, accepting the challenge in Hannibal’s narrowed eyes.

The brunette, whose self-preservation instinct was not so atrophied, smacked her friend on the shoulder with the back of her hand.

"Both of you!" amended the amorous Amanda. "Obviously. Wouldn't dream of separating you two. Hell, you can both call me Rachel."

In lieu of a response, Hannibal picked Will up and slung him over one shoulder. 

"Wait, before you go, say ‘mayonnaise’," ordered the brunette.

Hannibal looked at her over Will’s butt for a long unblinking while.

"My’nez," he said finally, then turned around and carried Will out of the bar.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the-best-part-of-waking-up asked:
> 
> Bad fic: will learns he is deadly allergic to dogs and his hallucinations were a sideeffect of his body fighting the dog poisons and he has to give all the dogs up and move somewhere else because there's too much dog hair in the house

Hannibal was of the firm opinion that Will looked his most beautiful when he cried.

Cried, not wailed like a toddler denied his binky. This was just sad.

"Will."

"WAAAAAAAAAAHHAHAHhahah!!.." Will took a shuddering inhale. "WAAAHAHHAH!.."

"Will…" He put a hand on the shaking shoulder and rubbed. The hand came away moist. Will had sweated through all his layers. Hannibal surreptitiously wiped his hand on a linen kerchief. It was one thing to know academically that human bodies were mostly water; it was another to have your paramour practically dissolve into a puddle in your Guanashina-clad lap.

"WAAAAAAAAHHAHAHhahah!!..”

"Look on the bright side, Will. You won’t be hallucinating anymore."

Will looked at him through a sheen of tears as thick as coke-bottle glasses and collapsed into Hannibal’s vest, snotty nose first. Hannibal enfolded him in a vaguely avuncular, vaguely lecherous embrace, rubbing his cheek on the top of Will’s head.

"My poor dear boy…" he whispered into the matted oily curls. A desperate urge to groom racked him. He was this close to dragging Will off into the yard, cutting off his manky rags and power-hosing him. "You could always get a kitty-cat…"

"WAAAAHH!!.."


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> gwahop asked: badfic prompt: au where will and hannibal run opposing stalls in a farmers market. they stare at each other from across the market, eyes narrowed, and make passive-aggressive comments about the quality of each other's produce (whatever that may be) whenever they walk by each other's stalls. will says "you wanna go mate" at least once ~bonus~ hannibal replies with "on a date?? yeah" (i'm so sorry)

NOTE: Will was being a little shit, so Hannibal ended up being the one to say “You wanna go mate?”

============================================================================

The new boy at the“Katz Farms Organic Apiary” stall next to his was almost annoyingly pretty.

He also stood so still, and his curly head drooped so low on his chest, that he seemed to be asleep on his feet.

When customers stopped to ask whether his honey was nut-free, dairy-free, soy-free, sugar-free, or gluten-free, he would just push forward one of the jars.

“It’s all on the label,” he would say, perfectly audible from where Hannibal was standing. “Eight bucks. Three for twenty.”

If the customer attempted a follow-up question, the boy withdrew to the back of the tent to root through a large cooler that reeked of fish. Left on their own, the customer would usually shrug and leave. Only one young lady took three jars, scribbling something on the bill before leaving it on the counter - presumably her phone number.

"Not one for bantering with the customers?" asked Hannibal when the customer traffic thinned out at lunch.

The boy turned his head and stared at him. He looked a bit like Saint Sebastian after a bender.

Hannibal reached for his distressed-barn-wood hip flask. “Hair of the dog?”

Something came alive in the boy’s bloodshot sea-green eyes.

"Dog?" he asked, as though by reflex.

Hannibal sloshed the flask provocatively.

The boy leaned over and took it without thanks. His gaze flicked over Hannibal’s herringbone waistcoat and the tunnel plug in his right ear but avoided his eyes.

"Nice plug," he muttered, putting the flask to his mouth.

"Thank you. A friend of mine upstate makes them from deer bones."

The boy kept on chugging.

"Your outfit is becoming."Hannibal nodded at the boy’s red flannel shirt. “‘Lumbersexual’, as they say…"

The boy cringed and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. Hannibal was mildly distressed to note that slovenliness failed to make him any less pretty.

“Fishersexual,” handing the flask back. It was empty.

"Pardon?"

"I’m a fisherman. My uncle Jack operates a 50 foot Hatteras Sportfish out of Huntington."

The boy had a charming English accent.

"Oh? And what do you do for uncle Jack?" said Hannibal, clicking the final ‘k’. It sounded creepy even to him, and he resolved not to do it again.

"I’m the mate."

"Well, I'm pleased to meet you, mate. I’m Hannibal."

"My name’s Will."

"You look like you had a boisterous night, Will."

"And you look like a slippery dick I once caught in Florida," said Will.

Hannibal’s pale eyebrows started on a valiant but doomed ascent over the mountain range of his brow.

"It’s a kind of fish," Will elucidated. "There being very few actual disembodied penises floating around Florida Keys."

There was a pause.

"What an oddly rude thing to say to someone," said Hannibal. "Especially after guzzling all their Bushmills. And here I thought Brits were supposed to be polite."

"Well, you know what they say about supposing."

"Oh? What?"

"Makes you a suppository."

"You best get back to watching your wares,” said Hannibal, stepping back towards his counter. “I presume Beverly put you there to keep her stock safe from customers, given how reluctantly you part with it?”

"As if your stuff sells any better," snorted Will. “‘Hannibal Lecter’s Nibbles and Delectables’ my delectable nipples. It’s like a butcher’s threw up - nothing but offal!"

"Organs have a more complete nutritional profile than muscle meats," said Hannibal frostily. "And my clientele is very loyal - they just come later in the day."

"What, after dark? Because they’re all serial killers and vampires?"

Hannibal did not dignify the jab with a reply. Unlike the boy, he had actual customers to serve.

"Hello, Frederick," he said, smiling at a short man with a cane and a monocle. The smile was parsimonious and insincere. Frederick Chilton came by every week and always asked for exotic meats that were not in stock in a transparent effort to look like a seasoned foodie.

"Any tongue today, Hannibal?"

"Of course. Beef and pork."

"Ah, pity. I was hoping for lamb."

"Not this time, I’m afraid. But I seem to recall you telling me last week that your yoga circle was doing a vegan month?" asked Hannibal.

"Ah… yes! We are. It’s for a friend."

"Would your friend perhaps care for some beaver instead?"

Will snorted audibly in his stall.

"Beaver?" asked Frederick.

"Yes. _Castor canadensis_. A friend of mine upstate traps them on his property.”

"This upstate friend of yours sounds like a remarkably resourceful fellow," remarked Will.

"What does beaver taste like?" Frederick wondered.

"Beef, more or less. I usually make _bebrienos troškinys_ , a Lithuanian stew with carrots, onions, and mushrooms. Usually nuts and flour as well, though I personally prefer to minimize potential allergens. But you can just cube it and fry it. There is beauty in simplicity."

"I think I’ll pass," said Frederick doubtfully. "Just the usual pickles."

Hannibal exchanged some jars for an ubiquitous twenty. “Here we are: green tomatoes, half-sours, and watermelon rinds.”

"You should buy some blood, too," said Will. "He’s got liter jars with blood stacked in the back. Never know when you might need a transfusion."

"It’s beet kvass," said Hannibal through his teeth.

"Well, it looks vile."

"Now, now. One can grow to love beets," said Frederick, receiving his change.

"At least my wares don’t smell like fish and dog vomit," said Hannibal, facing Will once Frederick was out of ear shot. "Unlike your honey."

"Piss off."

"It’s not Beverly’s fault, of course. It’s yours. You are by far the foulest smelling creature I ever encountered. I've dived in New Jersey dumpsters that smelled better than you."

"Conceited git."

"Insolent child."

"Trout-face."

"Take that back _immediately_.”

"Glub glub."

"Oh, that is it.” Hannibal pulled off his blood-smeared apron and went nose-to-nose with Will. “You wanna go mate?!” he hissed, forgetting the vocative comma.

"God yes," husked Will wrapping his arms around Hannibal’s neck. "Let’s go mate. In fact, let's get married in a barn with fairy lights, and have a klezmer band play at our wedding."

There was a brief pause as Hannibal re-evaluated his life goals.

"I only listen to late-Soviet protest rock and [warabe-uta](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Warabe_uta)," he said finally. "But the rest of it sounds agreeable."

He flipped open his silver-filigree pocket watch. “We have half an hour before the post-lunch rush. The Whole Foods on 14th has very nice toilet stalls. Lots of room to operate.”

"Sounds like you've operated there before,” remarked Will.

Hannibal smiled his most enigmatic micro-smile.

"By the way, I changed my mind," said Will as they walked through the park arm in arm. "You don’t look like a slippery dick. Or a trout."

"Oh? What do I look like then?"

"[Sailor’s choice](http://safmc.net/fish-id-and-regs/sailors-choice-0)."


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> dualityofsquid asked: Hannibal as a yoga teacher

**Monday:**

Will Graham arrived late. He tried his best to settle into the back of the room. However, the young women resting cross-legged on their yoga blocks seemed immovable, and wedging between them was an impossibility. Moreover, a few of them were giving him venomous looks. Will’s magic empathy powers informed him that the feeling around the room was that he was just there to look at their firm Lululemony behinds. He wasn’t. He had been sent down to “Ex Orienta Lux Yoga” by the FBI’s HR after empathizing with three psychoanalysts in a row so effectively that they started baring their souls to *him*. The souls turned out to be rather besmirched, and all three were now awaiting trial for various offenses and malpractices.

The instructor, a tall lean man, sat facing the class in a full lotus. He had a terribly attractive face that also somehow brought home that mankind evolved from an ape-like ancestor and, more distantly, fish. 

As they flowed from bhujangasana to downward dog, Will heard the sound of cloth ripping: his ancient gym shorts gave up the ghost right down the middle of his crack. There was tittering around the room. Will made a note to buy new shorts and stop distracting everyone with his poverty.

**Tuesday**

Will Graham arrived on time. He took his position at the front of the room again. The instructor gave him a small warm micro-smile and immediately dropped his eyes back to his crotch, which was clad in what looked like plaid drawstring pajamas.

I should’ve bought loose pants like his, thought Will. Curse my absentmindedness. Why oh why did I buy pants that cling to all my pert and unrealistically youthful curves? (Will stayed in shape through a careful diet of whiskey and coffee, as well as occasional jogs around his neck of the woods to take down those annoying “Lost Dog” posters.)

This time, no one tittered during the Vinyasa flow. Things were much worse: Will heard so much appreciative humming behind him that the entire room seemed to be filled with bees. 

**Wednesday**

Will Graham arrived two minutes early. The class was emptier than before - he counted only five people instead of ten. Still, he went to sit at the front of the class again and exchanged smiles with the instructor. His name was Hannibal, he had learned from another student yesterday, and that accent was apparently Lithuanian.

Today, Hannibal made everyone stay in downward dog, then walked through the room correcting their form. Will’s form must’ve been terrible, because Hannibal spent a full minute adjusting his shoulders, tummy, flanks, glutes, and ankles in turn. 

The rest of the room stared at them. One young lady actually toppled over. 

Will sighed. He didn’t know what repulsive aspect of his person was throwing these people off their game now, but he wasn’t surprised. He couldn’t take himself anywhere. Perhaps they all Googled him and found Freddie Lounds’ articles, which have been getting more and more invasive and insinuating by the day. The last time she wrote about him, one of her telescopic shots through his window made Tattler’s cover, and the whole world got a peep at Will naked in his claw-footed tub, soaping one of his new puppies. There were even calendars of these pictures for sale now on the Tattler website. And the stalking was only getting worse: Will was pretty sure he saw Freddie’s unmistakable hair in the Lamborghini that followed him to Quantico the other day.

**Thursday**

"Where is everyone?" wondered Will Graham as he spread his mat across from Hannibal’s the next morning in an empty room.

"Not many people stick with yoga," sighed Hannibal, proffering a yoga block and a strap. "I’m very happy to see you are persevering. Your flexibility is improving by leaps and bounds - though of course, we must always keep in mind that yoga is not a competition."

"Of course you’d say that - you’d win," said Will peevishly.

Hannibal looked at him with parental indulgence. “You sell yourself short. Anyway, from what I’ve seen your retention of the material has been superb, which is why today I’m going to spend more time focusing on form and letting you flow through the asanas on verbal prompts alone.”

Will tilted his head to the side like a dog.

"Face the other wall," Hannibal clarifies. "I will watch and instruct you from the back."

Throughout class, which was now more of a private lesson, Will got the distinct impression that his instructor kept having to swallow excess saliva as he spoke.

Afterwards, as Will was putting away his mat, Hannibal came into the storage closet with him, and the door accidentally shut behind him, locking them both in. 

"I really should introduce you to a finer aftershave," said Hannibal as they awaited rescue. "This smells like something with a ship on the bottle."

"Well, I keep getting it for Christmas," said Will. "The faculty does Secret Santa, and I swear they have a note against my name somewhere not to overthink it."

"That is a pity," said Hannibal, nuzzling his neck. "For them."

What an odd thing to say, thought Will - the last thing he thought coherently for quite a while.

Ten minutes later, the janitor came by the closet, said “Madre mia!” to herself, and went to mop elsewhere for a while.

**Friday**

_"Attention: due to a family emergence, Vinyasa flow classes are canceled until Monday."_

It was not entirely a lie, Hannibal thought to himself as he tested Will Graham’s new-found flexibility over and over again in his magnificently appointed bedroom, living room, and even kitchen. 

Just a very telling typo.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> hannibunlecter asked: Hannibal has seasonal allergies that refuse to be mitigated by any antihistamine known to man. He has terrible sneezing fits, and what's worse...he sneezes like a kitten.

“You’re giving me a referral?” whined Franklyn. His lips curled in a way that promised a truly spectacular meltdown. “But  _you_  were a referral!”

Franklyn burst into tears so bitter that all the toddlers of the greater Baltimore area suddenly hushed, as if honoring the presence of an unseen master.

Hannibal micro-rolled his eyes to the indifferent heavens above and began to reach for the tissue box, when suddenly…

Oh no, he thought, retaining the box on his knee rather than extending it condescendingly to the fool sobbing into his hands in the armchair across from his. Oh no, oh no, oh no…

_*tszi*_

The sobs quieted into sniffles.

 _*tszi*_  

 _*tszi*_  

Franklyn raised his head. “Doctor Lecter?”

Hannibal cautiously drew in some air through his treacherous nostrils. 

“Yes, Franklyn?”

“Do you have a cat?”

“No, Franklyn, I do not.”

“Are… are you  _sure?_ Because I could’ve sworn I had a cat sneeze just now.”

Hannibal’s lips thinned.

“Not even a cat. A kitten.”

Hannibal opened his mouth to say something  insinuatingly scathing, when he once more felt the treacherous tickle in his nose.

“Perhaps it would comfort you to check for yourself,” he croaked to Franklyn, gesturing hospitably to the carpet.

Franklyn slid eagerly off the armchair and went down on all fours. “Here kitty,” he cooed cloyingly as he crawled around the office carpet. “Here kitty-kitty…” 

 _*tszi*_  

“There it is again!” Franklyn fell flat on his belly to look under the desk.

_*tszi*_

_*tszi*_  

“No, it’s definitely coming from this side of the room,” he said, turning around, still on hands and knees, and crawling back towards Hannibal’s armchair. 

Wincing slightly, Hannibal tucked the used tissue speedily into the collar opening of his waistcoat. 

“I love kittens. We had a cat when I was little, a tabby called Mitzy,” said Franklyn. “My mom kept saying we ought to neuter her, but she never found the time…”

“Would you like to talk about your mother?” said Hannibal hopefully. “Or would you rather we go back to analyzing your affinity for psychopaths?”

“I have an affinity for psychopaths?” said Franklyn, sitting on his behind on the carpet with his hands still in front and suddenly looking rather like a cat himself.

“Yes. You were saying earlier that your desire to be psychologically dominated is leading you to make unwise attachments, and that you find being in the physical presence of a powerful psychopath both a balm and tonic for your proverbial nerves…”

“I was saying all that?” Franklyn said, impressed with his own eloquence.

“You most certainly were. Now…”

Suddenly, Hannibal’s grip on the kleenex box tightened. Damnation, was all he had time to think before

__*tszi*_  _

_*tszi*_

_*tszi*_

The devil take you, fexofenadine. 

 _*tszi*_  

To the blazes with you, azelastine.

 _*tszi*_  

Rot in hell, loratadine and desloratadine - a pox on both your houses…

Franklin’s mouth fell open. “Oh my  _God_ ,” he said, mouth spreading in a wide smile. “It was  _you!”_

 _“*tszi*”_  , said Hannibal helplessly.

“You sneeze like a kitten!” 

 _“*tszi*”_  , warned Hannibal.

“A tiny little kitten!”

 _“*tszi*”_  , concluded Hannibal, getting up from his armchair.

“An  _adorably_  tiny little…”

*CRACK*


End file.
